


Highwaymen

by thunderlilly



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, Rebirth, Songfic, Soulmate AU, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 06:12:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16571177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderlilly/pseuds/thunderlilly
Summary: Sometimes, Steve remembers his former lives. Sometimes, Tony does, too.Steve is always bitter about it. Tony is always right.Also, it goes without saying that they love each other very much.





	Highwaymen

**Author's Note:**

> A songfic. Figures.
> 
>  
> 
> It would probably be better if you listened to the version of Highwayman by The White Buffalo before reading, since I'm not quite sure how much sense this is gonna make without it.  
> Also, English is not my first language, so if something is wrong or sounds weird, feel free to tell me. Prepare for very long sentences
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0j7dRXeRQs0

Sometimes, in the times between sleeping and waking, Steve remembers the calming, rhythmic movements of riding along the coach roads, the sun burning down on him and the soothing heartbeat of his horse, carrying him wherever his path leads him to. Then there is the sound of his alarm clock and the thoughts - memories? - fade away as if they never were.

He remembers the weight of his sword, fastened securely to his belt - reaches for it sometimes during a fight, without thinking, wondering why his shield feels so foreign in his hand before shrugging it off.

Sometimes, when he startles, he lifts his arm, moving his thumbs up to cock his gun and freezes when there isn’t the noticeable, reassuring click, when there isn’t the heavy feeing of iron and wood in his hands. But then he shakes himself out of it and lifts his shield. Forgets.

He remembers falling in love with Tony, sometimes, but it’s not the first time. And it’s not the last time, either. And it’s not their moment on the battlefield, just a few years ago, when Steve saw him climbing out of the rubble of the house that had just collapsed on top of him and thought Oh thank God and he’s alive and I love him and I didn’t lose him again.

He remembers meeting a young man with inky black hair that sticks to his face with sweat and dust, and blue eyes that shine brighter than the sun itself.  
Remembers the joy of finally having a companion, of not being alone under the vast, uncaring sky of the desert.

He sees a young woman on the side of the road and catches himself thinking easy and I hope it’s real gold and I wonder how much we will get for it and then he shoves the thoughts away again, appalled and disgusted with himself, until he turns around and sees Tony eying the same woman with shrewd, calculating eyes.

Sometimes when he is with Tony, he feels scared, feels ashamed, but it’s nothing against those nights, when he’s holding Tony down, pressing him into the mattress and swallowing his groans and whimpers, when can feel the hard, dusty ground of the desert under their entwined bodies and the dark sky above and the silver starlight shining down on them indulgently, turning their love into something beautiful and ethereal.

And sometimes, afterwards, when he is wrapped securely around Tony’s smaller body, tired and sated and with the same stars shining down on them through the windows of the penthouse, making Tony even more beautiful than he usually is, Steve sometimes finds himself praying to those lights to guard them, to please, protect us and please don’t let them find us like this and please, don’t let it be tonight. And he can’t help the desperation rising up inside him, making him choke to keep the sobbing, wailing noises quiet that threaten to break free, because this isn’t fair and I love him and loving him could never be wrong and he only stops shaking enough to fall asleep when Tony rolls over in his sleep, burrowing into Steve’s chest with a snuffle and throws his leg over both of Steve’s.

He gets flashes of memories, sometimes, of blood and screaming and pain when he listens to some of the Republicans talk, spilling bigoted, homophobic bullshit. He feels his hand twitch towards his belt - to his sword? - when he’s sitting at a bar, listening to the bartender rambling on about sending them immigrants back to where they came from and them women not knowing their place anymore and those gays will all burn in hell anyway, because it’s not the first time he’s heard those words - knows it certainly won’t be the last time - and he will sometimes get the strangest of déjà-vus, can almost smell the blood dripping off his blade, can almost hear the screams and the pain and then running and running and running.

And Steve gets breathless, eyes traveling around the room frantically, desperately before finally settling on Tony. He watches Tony from across the room, seeing him light up when his eyes meet Steve’s, seeing him first smile and then frown, because Steve doesn’t smile back - can’t smile back, because there is a thick, dusty brown rope winding around Tony’s neck, disappearing into the ceiling above, pulling taut and taut. And then the floor disappears from under Tony’s feet and there is a sudden, loud, terrible snapping sound and Tony’s eyes are wide and bulging out of their sockets and Steve can’t breathe, can’t feel the pain in his own neck, and he has to get up from the bar, has to run to Tony who is running towards him, too, and whisk him away. Away from those monsters who would casually condemn them to a life in hell - a life on the run - again and away from the honest, upstanding, hardworking people that would gladly see them hanged. Again.

And sometimes he can almost hear them tell him. Can almost feel them put the rope around his neck, pulling the knot tight. You understand, don’t you, they whisper and he sees Tony’s wide, fearful, beautiful eyes, you know that what you two are doing is wrong, they ask and he sees Tony’s pale face and the tears running down his cheeks and thinks no, I really don’t.

He wakes up, sometimes, the hangman’s noose still constricting around his throat, not letting him breathe and he is mourning, grieving, for Tony’s dull lifeless eyes, and his feet dangling in the air, and this horrible, horrible snap of his on neck breaking ricocheting inside his head. And he wraps himself tighter around Tony, gripping his shoulders and his face and his hips until he wakes and pulls him even closer, patting along his back and through his hair. And Steve only stops crying when he’s buried as deep inside of Tony as he can possibly be, holding himself there until Tony begs him to move, please Steve, please and it’s alright Steve, I’m here, baby, I’ve got you, you’ve got me and this could never be wrong, Steve, we could never be wrong.  
And Steve finally, finally forgets when Tony pushes his heels into his thighs and bows his back and wails, and he hides his face in Tony’s neck, soft and warm and alive.

 

 

Sometimes Steve finds himself missing the sea-breeze on his face, and the smell of the ocean and the sounds of creaking wood and fluttering sails and watching the stars, telling them all his secret dreams and desires. And he finds himself yearning for someone to share them with, finds himself yearning for a home.

Sometimes when Steve’s out for a jog or to get to a meeting, he might see a black haired woman, dark tresses falling wildly over her slim shoulders, down her back and Steve will suddenly crave the feeling of letting his hands run through them, of braiding them and weaving flowers into them and seeing them spilled out in the grass beneath him as she laughs up at him, blue eyes shining mischievously and her nose wrinkling adorably, and Steve finds himself in Tony’s arms before he can think about it, finds his hands rove over his body clumsily, expecting soft curves and slim shoulders and wide hips.

And sometimes Tony lets his fingers scratch along Steve’s jawline and flinches when his nails leave red lines along it, as if he’s surprised to find his jaw clean-shaven, instead of bearded.

During storms, Steve has to hide in his room, sometimes, laying motionless on his bed, because his steps are staggering and unsure, as if he were walking on uneven ground, as if he were walking across a ship, the waves lapping greedily at the railing, reaching for him, pulling him away and away from her, and he hates them, sometimes, hates the sea.

And sometimes he feels ridiculous for it, feels stupid and weak because this isn’t anything new and I was born upon the tide and and I’m not weak and he very carefully shoves those thoughts - those feelings - back down, refuses to think about them, about what they might mean.

Sometimes, before he can get up and off the bed, Tony will come into his room and fling himself on top of Steve, hands moving frantically over his body and pressing himself closer, closer. And Steve puts his arms around her him and holds on tight, because he feels like flying through the air, like crashing into the sea, feels like drowning and I can’t leave her and I’m gonna die alone this time and this is worse and I’m so, so sorry and Tony is still crying into his chest, still holding on tight and whispering No and please and don’t leave me again and the yards broke off, they said that you got killed and he cant do anything but pull her him even tighter against him and whispering back I know and I’m sorry and I’m still living.

 

 

Sometimes, when he’s feeling homesick for a past long gone and decides to visit the East River, he has to stop and wonder at the slow, lazy way it drags itself forwards, wonder at the mighty Brooklyn Bridge as it arches elegantly across the water, its huge stone pillars that reach deep into the restless waves.

Sometimes, when he watches long enough, not concentrating on anything in particular, he sees another river. He sees New York crumble to dust and the desert merging from it. Sees the water rage and hiss at him, sees steel bars reaching out from the waves like hands, cold and wet and reaching for him.

Sometimes, when he tries to run away from his memories imaginings, he sees narrow wooden boards over a ripping current and he has to hold himself up on a bench or a tree or Tony to stop himself from falling stumbling.

Sometimes he goes deaf and blind, sometimes he can’t breathe and he feels the air like concrete, pressing against him from all sides, from inside his lungs, and the only thing that keeps him from panicking are Tony’s hands in his, gripping back just as tightly. Behind his unseeing eyes he sees Tony, face slack with surprised panic, hand reaching towards him, reaching, reaching and then grabbing - to late, God damnit all to hell, too late again - and then it’s only Tony and the cold, cruel concrete that swallows them up greedily, Tony’s eyes, so vividly blue, so beautiful and so, so sad.

Then it’s nothing at all.

And then, when its over, and he can see his own river again, and the city, and the bridge, sometimes he asks himself if, were they to dig deep enough into the concrete, they would find two men, clutching each others hands desperately, stone carved faces twisted in helpless fury and agony. Asks himself how long they have been stuck inside this grey tomb that knows no sound, how long they will have to stay there, still.

He always drags Tony home, afterwards, both of them pushing, pulling each other into the elevator and against walls and doors and their bed. He always forces his eyes to stay open and on Tony’s face, always keeps at least one hand in Tony’s, pushing it into the mattress beside his head, always kisses him deep and slow, until all he can taste is Tony and all he can smell is sweat and sex and all he can feel is Tony, against him and around him and inside him.

Only when Tony’s gasps and breaths echo louder than the sound of his own heartbeat does Steve forget the smell and taste of the river, and the terror on Tony’s face when he’d slipped and the suffocating feeling of the concrete closing around him and the terrible, all encompassing, deafening quiet.

And when Tony is asleep at his back, holding Steve tight and his hand still in Steve’s, Steve sometimes whispers I have you and I will never let you fall again and we’re still around, just to hear something other than the unsettling silence of their bedroom.

 

 

Lying bruised and bleeding and dying in between the rubble of their latest fight, Steve can’t help the bitterness that is rising up inside his throat and he curses, head pillowed on Tony’s armored shoulder as Tony himself chuckles softly, raising a hand to pet carefully through Steve’s hair.

“What do you think,” he wheezes, and Steve has to tilt his head to hear him, “What do you think will we be next time?” His blue eyes shimmer with unshed tears and resignation. “I would quite fancy myself the dashing Captain of a starship,” he adds and Steve chokes out a laugh.

“I’m sure you would,” he says, and doesn’t even bother trying to hide the fondness in his voice. Tony tugs on his shoulder.

“Think about it, though,” he says, “just the two of us and the stars, flying through infinity.” His voice is hoarse and Steve watches the constant dribble of blood that trickles down from the side of his mouth get wider. He snorts bitterly.

“The stars have never done anything but bring us pain and the most agonizing of deaths,” he spits out and Tony frowns.

“Don’t say that, Steve, they’ve alway brought us back together in the end. Isn’t that what we’ve always prayed for?” 

Steve closes his eyes and hums.

Then he replies, “Just once, I wish we could grow old together.”

“Maybe when we reach the other side of the Universe,” Tony says. “Perhaps we will find a place to rest there. Perhaps,” he chokes out a laugh, “we may even become Highwaymen again.”

“I highly doubt that, love.”

“Or we may simply be a single drop of rain.”

Steve laughs and he can feel the blood pooling on Tony’s armor under his cheek. “I like that one,” he says. “Very poetic.” Truly together, for once, he thinks, but keeps that thought to himself. Instead, he shifts again and finds that most of his body has already become numb. “I just wish we could do more, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Tony drawls. “I know.” Steve tiredly opens his eyes again and watches him watch the sky. “I know exactly what you mean.” He turns his face back to Steve and his face is pale, eyes dull. Steve is bitter.   
“It’s alright, though, we’ll come back again. And again. And again. We always come back again. The world won’t end while we sleep.” 

Tony’s voice has become a soft murmur and the hand in Steve’s hair has stopped moving. Steve tries to open his mouth to speak, but he is so, so tired, and he can feel Tony’s heartbeat under the armor, quiet and unsteady and so he just thinks yes and you are right and I love you and sleep well, beloved, and he knows that Tony is smiling, because Tony has always known what Steve was thinking anyway, even when they were Steven and Antonio, the hanged highwaymen, or Stephan and Antonia, the indecorous lovers, or Grant and Edward, the builders that were collateral damage.   
And Steve knows that Tony is thinking the same things as him, because Tony has always loved Steve back, and has always been with him.

We’ll be back, Steve thinks, and falls asleep.

Forgets.


End file.
